"My looker's settled with you, has he?"
"He said he had the power to sell as he thought proper—otherways I was going to ask for you."
An angry flush drowned the freckles on Joanna's cheek.
"That's Fuller, the obstinate, thick-headed old man...."
Bates's round face fell a little.
"I'm sorry if there's bin any mistäake. After all, I äun't got the beasts yet—thirty shillings a head is the price he asked and I paid. I call it a fair price, seeing the time of year and the state of the meat market But if your looker's bin presuming and you äun't pleased, then I wöan't call it a deal."
"I'm pleased enough to sell you my beasts, and thirty shillings is a fairish price. But I won't have Fuller fixing things up over my head like this, and I'll tell him so. How many of 'em did you buy, Mr. Bates?"
"I bought the lot—two score."
Joanna made a choking sound. Without another word, she turned and walked off in the direction of the hurdles where her sheep were penned, Bates and Alce following her after one disconcerted look at each other. Fuller stood beside the wethers, his two shaggy dogs couched at his feet—he started when he suddenly saw his mistress burst through the crowd, her black feathers nodding above her angry face.
"Fuller!" she shouted, so loud that those who were standing near turned round to see—"How many wether-tegs have you brought to Lydd?"